Feathers
by Louiseifer
Summary: This is what you get when you role-play over AIM. Credit also to Novek Dace, 'cause even I can't RP on my own.


Disclaimer: I own Crowley and Aziraphale. In my dreams.  
  
A/N: The devil made me do it!  
  
It had been a good day for Anthony J. Crowley. A very good day indeed. He had spread chaos and mild annoyance across the city of London most effectively this morning, by encouraging black ice to creep along Oxford Street and most other main roads too. A he expected, within seconds of the first car losing momentary control of their wheels, little yellow "diversion" signs had begun to pop out of nowhere. Before long the roads had been packed with angry, confused people, all honking and curing and tarnishing their own souls with hardly any help from Crowley at all.  
  
And if that wasn't enough, on the way home he had spotted a bunch of kids building a snowman in their front garden. A tiny flicker of Crowley's hand had caused said snowman to explode most alarmingly and rain down all over the youngsters in little cold lumps. That had caused a lovely little glow of self-satisfied evil in that place where a human being would have kept their heart.  
  
There was, in fact, only one thing which could make this day perfect; petering that funny little ethereal being who was Crowley's best - and practically only - friend.  
  
Aziraphale usually enjoyed being pestered by Crowley. He'd open the best wine especially, and bring out the angel-cake, and mile cheerfully and explain at Crowley all about the new rare volume he had purchased that day. Crowley had every right to expect this series of events, it had happened so often. Today, however, he was to be surprised.  
  
"Go away!" shouted Aziraphale's voice, when Crowley knocked on the door at the top of the flight of stairs leading up inside the angel's bookshop.  
  
"It's only me," Crowley called.  
  
Footsteps came towards the door. "Piss off!" the angel shouted.  
  
Crowley blinked. This was harsh language for Aziraphale. Something was obviously wrong.  
  
All his instincts told him to walk away now. Here was an angel muchly vexed and all Crowley had done was knock on the door. Job well done, his superiors in Hell would say. But . . . Aziraphale mattered to Crowley. And, besides, the demon was now highly curious.  
  
"What's the matter?" he asked, gently picking the lock with a paperclip.  
  
"Nothing! Go home, Crowley, please."  
  
Crowley opened the door. On the other side, Aziraphale threw himself against it. There was a small shower of white fluffyness, throughout which Aziraphale swore profusely.  
  
Crowley reached down and picked up a snow-white feather. It gleamed and shone as he twirled it in the late afternoon sunlight. When it brushed against his fingers, it was ten times softer than the bum of the baby messiah.  
  
"Angel feathers?" said Crowley. "What are you *doing* in there, Aziraphale?"  
  
"Nothing!" wailed the angel, one hand darting round the door to snatch his feather back.  
  
Crowley put his shoulder against the door and pushed. Aziraphale jumped backwards and there was another flurry of feathers.  
  
Aziraphale was standing in the hallway, wings unfurled, feathers flying all over the place. Hi wings looked shabby and patchy, and his face looked miserable.  
  
"Help," he muttered pathetically. "My wigs are going bald!"  
  
. . .  
  
This, Crowley decided, called for drastic action. An angel was reflected in the quality of his wings, and Crowley would be damned if any friend ofhis was going around the place with wings in that state.  
  
Actually, Crowley was damned anyway, but that wasn't the point.  
  
He went out to his Bentley which was parked outside. Then he returned, carrying a heavy bag with him.  
  
"Sit," said Crowley, pointing at the couch. The angel sat. Several feathers couldn't keep up with the sudden decendedness of Aziraphale, and hung around in the air above him for several seconds, before sauntering vaguely downwards. As it were.  
  
"What's in the bag?" asked Aziraphale with deep suspicion.  
  
"Grooming products," aid Crowley, blushing lightly. "And some other stuff."  
  
"Oh." Aziraphale shifted slightly. A feather landed gently on his nose. "I'm moulting!" he wailed.  
  
"Hush, you," said Crowley, rummaging through his bag.  
  
"But - "  
  
"Stop panicking. I'ma genius."  
  
"Yes, but - "  
  
"Aziraphale, angel, you are in safe hand. Now just shut up and let me concentrate. . . ah, yes . . . " He pulled a red rectangular box out of his bag and handed it to Aziraphale, who shook it. It rattled.  
  
"What's this for?"  
  
"They'll ease the moulting. Says "Molt-easers" on the box, ha ha." He started rummaging again.  
  
Aziraphale waited for a while, and the occasional feather glided away from his wings.  
  
"I'm going to get bald patches," he moaned. "I've got a receding feather- line. I'm ooooooold!"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"What're you looking for?"  
  
"This." Crowley handed him a shuttlecock. "Use it for patch-working."  
  
"Anything else in your box of tricks?" aid Aziraphale coldly.  
  
"A comb," said Crowley, producing one such item. "And some feather- restorer. Aziraphale, this is your own fault. How often do you groom?"  
  
"Um . . . never."  
  
"Well, there you are."  
  
Crowley flourished the comb, gave Aziraphale a huge grin, and pounced. 


End file.
